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right or commit any number of other infractions.
Gabe stood back and studied the cabin from wood floor to rafters. It had taken him the better part of the day, but he was satisfied with the results. The room was as clean as it could get.
It’ll make a good home. He released a mirthless grunt at the passing thought. He didn’t have a home. Had never had a home, if truth be known. This was a stopping place, a temporary sanctuary.
He carried the bucket of dirty scrub water outside and emptied it into the grass behind the outhouse. Then he went to the pump where he stripped off his shirt, gave the handle a few quick jerks, and stuck his head beneath the running water. It was icy cold, causing his breath to catch. When he straightened, he shoved his wet hair away from his face. It needed to be trimmed. He’d have to ask Akira for a pair of scissors.
Tossing his sweat-stained shirt over his shoulder, he picked up the bucket, refilled it with fresh water, and returned to his cabin.
He had one more clean shirt, thanks to the generosity of his new employer. He would wash up and put it on before joining her and the others for supper. Once he was out with the sheep, he didn’t suppose it would matter if he had a clean change of clothing. But today it mattered.
There’d been a time when Gabe had a wardrobe full of clothes, drawers full of white shirts that had been washed and starched and pressed by servants.
He hesitated before glancing at his reflection in the small mirror on the wall. A haggard-looking man stared back at him. A man who appeared much older than his thirty-two years. Was there any sign of the kid he’d been? Of the spoiled youth, lashing out at the world, longing for something he couldn’t have?
No, there wasn’t. That boy was as dead as both of his brothers.
The clanging of the dinner bell pulled him away from the mirror—and his thoughts. It was just as well. He’d been on the verge of recalling things best left hidden in the darkest corners of his memory.
With a quick rake of fingers through shaggy, damp hair, he strode out of the cabin and toward the main house. He kept his head and eyes raised. In prison, he’d learned to walk with his gaze lowered. A man was less apt to get into trouble that way. But there was a desire in his heart to appear confident now.
And he would need confidence tonight, judging by the look of Brodie Lachlan. The Scotsman stood inside the open doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his scowl as dark as a moonless night in the forest.
“There you are,” Akira said, drawing Gabe’s gaze to the opposite side of the room. Her smile was welcoming; Brodie’s frown was not. “Come and meet the Wickhams.” She motioned toward a chair at the table.
He moved past the Scotsman, half expecting a blow to the back of his head.
“Mr. Wickham,” Akira continued, “you remember Gabe Talmadge.”
Gabe noticed there was no flicker of surprise in Charlie’s expression, and he knew the man had been forewarned.
“I do.” Charlie held out a hand. “Good to see you again. Sorry I didn’t recognize you earlier today.”
Gabe had little choice but to shake the proffered hand.
Charlie glanced to his right. “This is my wife, Nora.” Then he looked to his left. “And this is my son, Mark.”
“Pleasure,” Gabe mumbled with nods toward both.
Akira interrupted the awkward silence that followed by pulling out a chair from the table and saying, “Sit down, everyone, before supper gets cold.”

Akira wasn’t much good at the art of polite conversation. Even when she’d lived in San Francisco with her mother and stepfather, who had entertained frequently, she hadn’t excelled at it. But tonight she was thankful for what little she’d learned from her mother’s tutelage.
“Mrs. Wickham, I couldn’t help but notice the beautiful needlepoint you were working on earlier this afternoon. Did you design the pattern yourself?”
“Yes, I did. Thank you.”
“Perhaps you could show it to me